


rewind

by alpha_cassiopeiae



Category: Unus Annus - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Directly Post-Goodbye., Ethan Cries A Lot, Ethan whump, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Pining, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 06:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30067737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_cassiopeiae/pseuds/alpha_cassiopeiae
Summary: Ethan wakes up in the wee hours, stares at the ceiling, and breaks down in tears again.The core tenet of their crazy project was impermanence; remembering that your days are numbered and the end is nigh, and once a moment has passed, that's it. Gone like a last breath stolen, never to be felt or experienced again.(I started writing this the day it ended. Then I watched Wandavision, and plans...changed.)
Relationships: Mark Fischbach/Amy Nelson, Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	rewind

**Author's Note:**

> You know the drill – I don't ship these people irl, this is fiction and entertainment, nothing else. If you're in any way affiliated with persons whose personas are depicted herein, please, please leave, don't read this, forget that you ever saw it. Everyone else – please do not spread or link this outside of AO3. I don't want anyone to have to see this if they aren't looking for it specifically. Thank you!

Big emotions have always been a staple of Ethan's life. He's always been quick to tears, moved by kindness and by sadness, forced by his own frustration, or by pure joy. He cries on stream, cries in videos, raises his voice and gives his whole heart to anyone who'll have it, even though most of the time he can't even put into words _why_ , or what it is he's really feeling.

Part of it is the ADHD, he supposes. Most of it is just him. He struggles to take compliments, to be genuine about how proud he is of what he's accomplished, but Ethan is proud of his own channel, he's proud of Unus Annus all the way to the end, and dammit, he's proud of himself, too.

Beneath the surface level challenge of creating something worthwhile every day for a year, the brainstorming and the editing and the filming, the lack of sleep and the close calls and the soreness of his body and exhaustion of his mind every night, there was an idea worth believing in, and there was Mark, and Amy, and Evan, and the editors, and how for the first time in his life, reliability was expected of him both onscreen and off, and he delivered. They all did.

They delete the channel, and Ethan cries, because at this point, that's what he does. The impact of what they've made is what gets to him most of all, exemplified a thousand times over in viewer counts and fan art that takes his breath away. When he turns to see Mark's huge, dopey grin shining back at him, like a vial of cough syrup something breaks somewhere inside him and fills his chest with warmth. He forgets all about the pandemic, for just a split second, and is really, truly present in the moment.

It's a dopamine high. That much is evident when that night, Ethan wakes up in the wee hours, stares at the ceiling, and breaks down in tears again.

The core tenet of their crazy project was impermanence; remembering that your days are numbered and the end is nigh, and once a moment has passed, that's it. Gone like a last breath stolen, never to be felt or experienced again.

It's the end of an era; a chapter closed. Ethan will never spend most of his days at Mark's house again, nor will they spend hours discussing video ideas with Amy. He won't spend all night editing something doomed to deletion. He will never get to have those nights again, where he falls asleep on Mark and Amy's couch, sandwiched between them at the end of a long day. His head on Mark's shoulder. Amy's hair in his face, the faint fragrance of her shampoo etched into his mind. Hearing them laugh, seeing their gentle glances at each other. Something so genuine and private, yet if he sits imperceptible and still, he can share the moment.

Mark has never been a touchy-feely kind of person, but he loves Amy, that much is obvious. Most of his touch is reserved for her, but sometimes, when it was the three of them, it's like he got bolder, and some of that touch drifted to Ethan by association. Mark would rest his hand on Ethan's shoulder without a second thought, then.

Once, when Ethan was drifting to sleep, curled up and apologizing for not making it home, Mark only shushed him and gently ruffled his hair. The next morning, he woke up in the guest bedroom, confused and sleepy, with an ache in his chest he tried his best to push aside.

When he reaches out, Ethan finds the cool, still air of his bedroom, and the silence makes his eardrums itch. He was alone back then, in Mark and Amy's guest bedroom, and he's alone now, in his own bed, the day after it all ended. Or, well, Spencer is there, snoring quietly in his crate, but it's not the same, and Ethan can't bear to wake him.

He's spiraling, he knows, crashing from how high-strung he's been lately, and how much he misses his friends.

The floor is cold under his bare feet as he pads to the bathroom to wash dried tears off his face. He waits until the water is on the warm side of tepid to wet a towel, and presses it gently to the sore skin around each eye where’s he’s been wiping and rubbing tears away, before sitting down on the closed toilet lid and pulling up his phone. Would it be weird to just...text Mark? He won't see it before he wakes up, anyway, so it's not like it makes much of a difference.

_hey sorry for texting you so late-_

No, that's stupid.

_i feel like hot fucking garbage-_

No. Too blunt. Too true.

_hey, just wanted to check in, how are you holding up?_

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Mark's probably fine. He’s had worse.

Looking at himself in the mirror is not the smartest thing Ethan's ever done. Even after the oh-so-careful dabbing rinse, his eyes are red and puffy. His hair is a mess from sleeping on it, a lopsided cloud full of product he couldn't be bothered to wash out before collapsing into bed.

"Fucking stupid," he mutters, "bullshit _stupid_ emotions."

His therapist would scold him for the negative self-talk, and give him that smile therapists give you when they're about to repeat something for the millionth time, but she's also not there, and he's not having another session until fucking December anyway. He puts his phone back on the bedside table and flops back down in bed, face down, hugging his pillow.

And the way he feels about Mark...yeah. It might be a crush. Ethan knows what those feel like, knows the anxiety and yearning of it all too well, and he feels so _wrong_ for even thinking about feeling that way. He's seen the fringes of the internet that draw saucy art of him and Mark, and it makes his stomach twist in sour knots. He's not supposed to feel this way. He's supposed to laugh at it, make fun of it, think it's gross.

Mark has Amy. She’s lovely, and they're happy together, and Mark is straight. Hell, _Ethan_ is straight.

Mostly, at least. And it's not like Ethan wants to...you know. Fuck him, or anything. Sure, objectively speaking, Mark is an attractive guy. He's fit, he's got a good face, he's driven and confident. Who wouldn't find that attractive? Besides, Ethan's just realizing that he's going to miss being around him; their easy energy and their chemistry, and the way they could riff off of each others' bits even before doing improv together.

Mark just wanted to help him realise his potential, or whatever, and here Ethan is, going beyond the childish admiration he shed years ago and developing a fucking crush on him. It's almost 3 am, and Ethan is crying into his pillow in frustration because he's got the most inconvenient crush in the universe and the world is in shambles and Unus Annus is fucking over and all he wants is to go back.

Back to laughing all day, grin so wide it might as well be etching itself across his face permanently, to back-breaking work that felt so purposeful it kept him going on barely any sleep when caffeine and Lexapro combined wouldn’t cut it. Back to crazy ideas made real, before Covid swept across the world, before everything. Back to Spencer playing with Chica and Henry in Mark and Amy's back yard, back to happily falling asleep on Mark's shoulder, to Amy kissing his temple goodnight as a carefree afterthought, like it was the most natural thing in the world to be smooching your friend and coworker snuggled up to your boyfriend.

As Ethan wallows, a creeping nausea overtakes him. It starts out slow and looming, but soon builds, listing as though his room is a cabin on a ship, leaning and rocking through a treacherous storm somewhere out in the middle of the ocean. At first he thinks it's just his body overreacting, the stress of the past twenty-four hours catching up to him, or a panic attack, like he had when he was younger. He tries to tell himself to breathe through it, all the way in through his nose and all the way out through his mouth, just like his therapist taught him, and his dad long before therapy was even a fleeting thought in the back of his mind. It almost, almost works to quell the nausea, but then he hears Spencer whimpering and the rattling of metal, and his own discomfort becomes wholly secondary.

He bolts upright and makes a beeline to the crate, off balance and falling sideways before he gets there. _Fuck_ , if anything were to happen to his baby boy, if he got hurt, Ethan would never forgive himself. "Spence!"

Lights flicker from outside his window, bright flashes of stark white interspersed with pitch black, like old-timey black-and-white celluloid rolling and clicking into place, rewinding. It makes everything look as though it's moving jerkily in stop motion, blurring at the edges. Ethan feels like he might hit the ground any second, exhausted and overstimulated, motion sick like he's been through a blender.

"What the fuck, what the _fuck_ ", Ethan mutters shakily, his breath coming quicker, stomach in knots, and he thinks he's about to either throw up or pass out, potentially both. "Kathryn! S-somebody, please!"

His room makes a final harsh lurch sideways, and Ethan is helpless to resist it, tumbling headfirst into the corner of his bed, white-hot pain spreading through his body from his forehead, which from the glaring pain is probably split open. His chest is clenched so tightly it's painful to draw anything but shallow, panicked breaths, like something volatile is building up underneath his sternum, threatening to burst forth and destroy everything in its path.

It's overwhelming. He tries to roll fully onto his back to sit up, but it fucking hurts, not just his head but all over, and he needs to find Kathryn, he needs to get to Spencer, he–

The world cuts to black, so Ethan doesn't have to.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a ball of anxiety and comments keep the fear at bay!  
> Thanks for reading <3


End file.
